


Omnipotence Paradox

by Beguile



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Conflation of Sex and Violence, Destruction of Private Property, Season 3 Speculation, Some Spoilers for the Novel, Some hurt/comfort, slashy undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trap springs too quickly in Florence.  Will and Hannibal adapt.  \</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I saw some photos from the set of season 3 on Tumblr tonight of a bloodied Hannibal and Will limping down an abandoned street and finally, mercifully, was compelled to write! This may end up being more chapters; I haven’t decided and don’t want to promise anything, but I do hope you enjoy! Happy holidays, everyone!

* * *

 

Omnipotence Paradox

 

            The trap springs too quickly, and instead of rewarding Inspector Pazzi for his cleverness, Hannibal ends up with Will Graham wrapped around his waist.  They fall into a shadow as bullets slash through the air above them.  The Inspector clearly doesn’t share Will’s predilection for hand-to-hand combat.  Hannibal can’t say he blames Pazzi either: he could easily overpower the Inspector.  Will Graham, on the other hand, is a perfect adversary.

            “Just like old times, hm?” he grunts.  Being sandwiched between Will and the floor has left him winded.  The punch he receives to the face does nothing to help Hannibal reclaim his breath.

            “Shut up,” Will says, dismounting.  He heaves Hannibal upright and pushes him through the stacks.  “Move.”

            More bullet’s whiz through crates and pallettes surrounding them.  The warehouse provides only visual cover apparently.  Hannibal anticipates an accidental death is in store for one or both of them.  “I take it you and Inspector Pazzi are working independently.”

            “I’m not going to share the satisfaction of killing you.”   
  
            “Hmm…” Hannibal considers a bullet hole that comes dangerously close to his trunk.  “A pity the Inspector does not feel the same.”

            “I said…”

            “I heard what you said, Will,” Hannibal straightens his suit, “but I’m afraid I can’t do that, not without attending to Inspector Pazzi’s rudeness.”   
            Will tackles him again, but this time, Hannibal is ready.  He catches Will by the shoulders and throws him into the opposite wall.  Will catches the brick with his cheek and uses the force to rebound, but that only drives him faster into Hannibal’s fist.  He lands in a heap on the ground, struggling to stand. 

            Pazzi is reloading when he is grabbed from behind.  Hannibal wraps his arms around the Inspector’s neck and tightens until the gun falls from his fingers.  Several blows land to his legs and chest, but Pazzi is cowardly and weak.  He couldn’t hold his own against a child, let alone a grown man with the experience Hannibal has.  The entire scene is dissatisfying.  Selfishly, Hannibal wants to save the Inspector for later, perhaps have Will for dinner and let him feast on Pazzi’s degenerate corpse.

            Speaking of Will, the lad recovers to the point where he slips soundlessly across the stone floor, landing a blow to Hannibal’s kidney that lets the Inspector drop from Hannibal’s grasp.  The next moment is a chaotic exchange of strikes between the three: Pazzi reaches for his gun but is denied by Will, who earns a second punch to the face from Hannibal, who gets bitten in the leg by Pazzi, who gets kicked by Will, who gets thrown aside by Hannibal.

            At which point the gun ends up somewhere in the shadows. 

            Pazzi scrambles for it, foolishly turning his back on Hannibal for long enough to get nabbed by the scruff of his coat.  The anticipation of victory is short-lived.  Once again, Will asserts himself in the melee: he throws his shoulder into Hannibal’s side, causing doctor and Inspector to fall over.  Pazzi rolls to his feet and darts into the darkness, still in search of the gun, while Will drops knee-first onto Hannibal’s chest and holds him prostrate.  He wraps his hands around the doctor’s neck and starts to squeeze.

            “Will,” Hannibal chokes, glancing from Pazzi – rearmed – and Will – strong-armed – and comes to the conclusion that he has courted far too many killers in his lifetime.  That being strangled by a former friend and getting shot by a desperate, crooked cop is the universe’s way of telling him to quit before he gets ahead.

            He rolls Will out of the way before Pazzi’s aim can prove to be less terrible than his initial shots suggested.  The ensuing brawl warms Hannibal to the core.  He has never felt closer to Will than the moment their arms and legs meet to wrestle.  They tumble back to their shadow, out of Pazzi’s line of fire, and end up as a great, gesticulating knot, limbs tangled in battle. 

            Will hasn’t simply regained his strength: he’s doubled it, concealing bulk beneath the clean, lean cut of a suit.  Hannibal appreciates the challenge, as the Will Graham he left bleeding to death in Baltimore would have been a poor opponent.  They do not have to hold back because they are absolute equals: naked, exposed, fully aware of the consequences if they should lose.

            Hannibal finds the pain and blood of their fight gratifying.  He welcomes the hard lashes of knuckle against face, face against stone; of knee against sternum, foot against thigh.  They are aware of Pazzi pacing for a greater vantage point – Will is especially careful, Hannibal notes appreciatively, because he wants the doctor all to himself – so they keep their squabbling out of his sight.  They roll, punch, throw, stalk, and beat their way deeper into the unknown corners of the Florence tenement.  Pazzi’s bullets and footsteps come to interrupt them less frequently.  By the time they reach the back wall, they are alone and entangled. 

            One ends up pinned between the other and the wall; the result is inverted a moment later.  Hannibal dizzies; Will tires.  They are dancing around a macabre finale, bloody castoff marking the walls of their hate-making.  Hannibal thinks he has won when he lands a strike over Will’s abdomen, but the hit only spurs Will into crushing Hannibal’s genitals with his knee.  Unfair, Hannibal thinks as he drops to the ground but not undeserved.

            Will obviously feels the same way, or maybe he’s just savouring the moment.  He takes forever to wrap his arm around Hannibal’s neck, even longer to haul the doctor to his feet to choke him.  The whole act thrums with their familiar bond, with their twisted affection.  Hannibal hasn’t felt this connected to Will since Baltimore, since, “Do you believe you could change me the way I changed you?” and, “I already did.”   
  
            There are no questions to ask that Hannibal does not already know the answer to, because he knows Will enough to see that this murder feels good.  Not in the same way Hobbs’s murder did.  Will isn’t trying to feel powerful; he’s trying to feel righteous, and if the tightening of his arm could speak – which it does, ringing in Hannibal’s ears as his heart thunders its last beats – it would speak RECKONING into eternity.

            The bullet screams past in a flood of splintered wood and air.  Will’s arm loosens for a fraction of a second, long enough for Hannibal to yank himself out of the smaller man’s grasp.  He elbows Will out of the way of another shot and nearly catches the bullet in his chest for the trouble.  The stone floor is a welcome cradle for them both.  Hannibal pins Will to the ground and savours their most recent brush with death.  How quickly they bounce from foe to friend in the presence of a common enemy.

            Another bullet prompts Hannibal to ask, “Shall we continue this elsewhere?”

            “Don’t kill him,” Will nags. 

            Hannibal tosses his head.  “Not today,” he agrees and yanks Will to his feet.  

            The blow to his stomach leaves Will doubled over, limping, so Hannibal takes it upon himself to sling one of the former agent’s arms over his shoulders.  Will just barely resists.  Pazzi’s bullets have rearranged his priorities for the time being at least.  They scuttle beneath a shield of crates, tracking Pazzi by his clumsy footsteps and abrasive Italian calls for back-up.  There’s a locked door in the back corner that they kick open, revealing an empty alleyway beyond.

            Sunlight blinds them both, revealing the blood collecting around their eyes and the puffiness of their skin.  The swelling has already started.  Hannibal doesn’t bother brushing himself off.  He is too busy performing - straightening his back and shoulders, leveling his chin with the ground – to register the many injuries Will has inflicted upon him.  He remains sensitive to Will’s presence though.  Their psychic tether, slackened in the year since Baltimore, are taut once again.  Will’s weight is a welcome sensation against Hannibal’s side.  He has a difficult time letting go when they return to the street, but they hardly need to invite more attention to themselves.

            “What happens now?” Will asks as he extricates himself from Hannibal’s grasp.

            Sirens begin to congregate behind them.  Hannibal suppresses a smile.  “We run,” he says, and can’t help but add, “Together.”

 

* * *

 

I think there’s more to this, but for now, I have much to celebrate.  Happy Holidays!  Happy reading!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trap springs too quickly in Florence. Will and Hannibal adapt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Thank you for your kind interest in what has now become chapter one! I hope you all enjoy chapter two, which has to lead to chapter three, and so on and so forth until…I have no idea when.   
> There are spoilers for the novel Hannibal in this chapter, given that in the book, Inspector Pazzi is...doing stuff in conjunction with another character...yeah, I almost spoiled the spoilers in the spoiler warning. Apologies.   
> …enjoy!

* * *

 

Two

 

* * *

 

          They play chicken with the other’s stamina as they move.  What starts as a run oscillates between job and leisurely walk until they are a safe distance from the sirens and Hannibal’s car comes into view.  He will have to switch it out for another before leaving the city, but he calculates there is enough time left to run the necessary errands. 

          Aside for several bumps and bruises (the miserable ache in his groin being the worst), Hannibal considers himself unscathed.  Will seems to have taken the brunt of the abuse, but he’s far too stubborn to let it show beyond a slight limp.

          Aware that he’s being watched, Will breaks the silence, “Will Dr. Du Maurier be joining us?”   
  
          “I expect that Dr. Du Maurier has already fled the country if Inspector Pazzi is aware of who I am,” Hannibal replies.  He’s disappointed to be losing his new life in Florence so quickly.  “I doubt I can say the same for Jack Crawford.”

          “Jack can take care of himself.”

          “No doubt,” Hannibal casts a sideways glance at Will.  “Was he waiting for you today?”   
  
          “Yes.”   
  
          The lad’s honesty is refreshing.  Their last conversation about alliances with Jack Crawford was not quite so revealing.  “He won’t give you up so easily."  
  
          “I wouldn’t be so sure.  His last words to me were that you and I deserve each other.”   
  
          Hannibal hums, satisfied with the answer.  They do deserve each other.  For that, the good doctor slows and finally stops.  Will follows his lead.  Facing each other, they measure the quiet around them, gauging how alone they truly are with all the open windows.  The old stone buildings provide excellent acoustics.  They are alone enough for murder.  “It seems providence has granted us another arena,” Hannibal measures Will’s stance and readiness for a fight.  “You are here to kill me, aren’t you, Will?”   
  
          More honesty: “I haven’t decided yet.  I thought a lot about killing you while I was in the hospital.”   
  
          “I killed Abigail Hobbs.”

          “ _Don’t_ ,” Hannibal’s struck a nerve, “say her name.  You don’t deserve to say her name.”   
  
          “I told you a place had been made for you.”   
  
          Will grabs him by the coat lapels and shoves him up against the wall.  “You could have let her go!  You…you should have…”   
  
          Hannibal doesn’t struggle.  He invites the outburst, relishing the force of Will’s knuckles against him.  In fact, he’s disappointed when the ferocity drains out of Will and they end up apart, facing each other again.  The former agent isn’t ready to deal in mortality just yet. 

          “Death is too good for you,” Will sneers, “and it would be a disappointing end for me.”   
          “Even a death orchestrated by Mason Verger?  No doubt that’s who Pazzi was working for.”

          “What you did to Mason Verger was justice,” the fire returns to Will voice.  His eyes smoulder.  “What you did that night…to Alana, to me, to Jack, to _Abigail_ …” he has no words for it.  Will has to let the words burn on the air between them, an inferno.  “That deserves something so much worse than death, even a death that Mason Verger planned.”

          Hannibal lets the heat of the moment wash against him.  “I look forward to what you have in mind,” he says, “though I’m not sure if Jack Crawford will continue to support this endeavour, not now that you’ve abandoned him.  You can count on Inspector Pazzi letting him know how you aided and abetted my escape at the warehouse.”   

          “Jack Crawford knows where my loyalties lie.”

          “You can hardly say the same for the Polizia di Stato.  My flight from Baltimore received national coverage, as did yours and Jack Crawford’s botched operation to avert it.  You were barely acquitted in the United States.”   
  
          Will finally catches up in the conversation.  “Are you asking me to flee the country with you?”   
  
          “I’m merely providing the incentive.”

          “You _gutted_ me.”

          Hannibal looks to the place he sank his knife so long ago.  Will’s leg hangs below it the way animals hang in a butcher shop’s window.  “I overreacted,” the good doctor allows himself to admit.

          The pause is long and pregnant.  Will’s gaze can’t possibly get any wilder.  Hannibal’s explanation seems so miniscule in comparison to the carnage he caused.  “You overreacted?”

          “The intention was to depart from Baltimore with you and Abigail without alarm.  I was upset.”

          Will’s grasp on his temper weakens.  He lets loose an indignant huff and storms away as well as his bad leg will support him, then circles back.  “You know, I stand corrected: death sounds like a perfect punishment for you.  I should have let Inspector Pazzi shoot you.”

          “Then why didn’t you?” Hannibal allows the impending revelations to percolate in his mind.  He’s coming to understand this new Will, the one limping in the aftermath, his motivations.  “You came to Florence with Jack Crawford to arrest me, but you prevent an attempt on my life by a zealous police officer and flee the scene instead.  You’re not even armed yourself, are you, Will?  Not even Jack Crawford trusts you enough to give you a gun.”   
  
          “I knew I wouldn’t need one.  Not against you.”

          “Because you knew I wouldn’t attack you?  Or because you knew you wouldn’t use it on me?”

          “Both,” Will spits.  “If I do decide to kill you, Dr. Lecter, I want to do it with my bare hands.”

          Hannibal can’t express the pleasure he gets from the thought of facing Will again, this time in a fair fight.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Perhaps you’ll give greater consideration to my proposal to run together after all.  We can go somewhere private, just the two of us, and end it the way it should have in Baltimore.”

          “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

          They can’t possibly just stand around all day in a quiet section of Florence, Hannibal knows, and it dawns on him a second later why they might be.  He lunges for Will and captures the cell phone safely tucked into the breast pocket of the smaller man’s coat. 

          Will punches him in the throat.  Stars dance in front of Hannibal’s eyes and the cell phone tumbles across the pavement.  The doctor scrambles forward, ignoring his inability to breathe, and throws himself down on Will’s exposed back.

          The former agent’s reaction is more violent than he anticipates, and his cry is more of pain than mere frustration.  Hannibal loses his grip from Will’s sudden burst of strength, but he still manages to crack the phone with a kick before Will can get to it.  Another stomp his foot and the hope of being tracked disappears. 

          Hannibal gives Will a moment to right himself.  He straightens his coat, combs a hand through his hair, cleans the blood of his arm.  Blood that isn’t his.  He raises a brow and scans the area.  There are drops on the cobblestone, on Will’s shoes, down Will’s pant leg. 

          He blames his rather slow comprehension of the situation on a possible head injury.  The limping, the pain, his pallor.  Will’s gone a shade of pale best reserved for the morgue.  He’s sweating in spite of the temperature. 

          “It’s a graze,” Will said, pressing a hand against his hip.  The bullet must have passed through the pocket during their flight through the stacks.  No wonder Hannibal can’t see the rip. 

          Will staggers back a step.  He barely catches himself.  Hannibal, as usual, takes advantage.  He stalks slowly towards Will.  “It appears your options are dwindling, Will: you can either stay here and hope for rescue, not to mention that the Polizia are willing to believe your story about their Inspector being a hired hand.  Or you can come with me, knowing that I have the means to stop the bleeding and save your life.”

          “I’m not…” the words die in his mouth as a symptom of his condition or the oppressive hopelessness of the situation.  “Jack Crawford is going to come looking for me.”

          “He won’t find you.”   
  
          “He already did once.”

          “You found me, Will,” Hannibal reaches towards Will’s hip and applies the same, life-saving pressure to Will’s wound that he applied to Abigail Hobbs’s neck.  The touch revives Will somewhat.  He manages to close his mouth and draw a steadying breath.  “Of that I am absolutely certain.”

          The corners of Will’s mouth tilt up in a wicked half-smile.  His face crumbles a second later – from physical pain or emotional pain, Hannibal’s not sure.  “I suppose it will be easier to catch you if I’m with you.”

          Hannibal smiles too.  “I’m glad that was your decision.  I admit, I was going to wait for you to pass out and take you while you were incapacitated.”   
  
          Will snarls, “I would expect nothing less, Doctor.”

          “Put pressure on that,” Hannibal directs, then slings one of Will’s arms over his shoulders again.  Their three-legged gait carries them to the car, where Hannibal deposits Will in the passenger seat.  He packs his coat against Will’s hip to staunch the bleeding, then rounds the vehicle to the driver’s seat. 

          He makes sure his route takes them directly past Hospital Saint Maria Nuovo.  It is, after all, less than two blocks from where they were standing.

          “Bastard,” Will mutters. 

          “Don’t be rude, Will,” Hannibal warns, accelerating. 

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes a stop on their way out of the city. Will is not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I am so happy that people are enjoying this fic! It’s certainly helping me cope with the long stretch between now and the third season (which can’t come fast enough, what with all the amazing news about it). I feel like I should mention that I am borrowing bits and pieces from the Hannibal novel, including Pazzi’s wife. Apologies if this is spoiler-y.   
> Cheers, everyone! Enjoy!

* * *

 

Three

 

          Will berates himself for not keeping a better handle on his gunshot wound.  For letting his cell phone get destroyed.  For not having a gun (he tries to blame Jack for that and fails, miserably).  He imagines calling Hannibal’s bluff there on the street instead of caving to the doctor’s design.  Again.

          Then he realizes that gunshot wound or no, the second he started following Hannibal today they were bound to end up in this car together.  Theirs is a dance of fate ruled by just enough luck to appear random. 

          He is shaken out of his reverie gently.  Hannibal doesn’t tear his eyes from the road even as he retracts his hand from Will’s shoulder.  “Are you conscious?”   
  
          Will is also careful not to take his eyes from the road, “Yes.”   
  
          “You’ll keep me informed about your condition: confusion, weakness, or any agitation.”

          “The bleeding’s slowed.”   
  
          “Possibly because you don’t have much blood left to lose.”

          “I’m fine.”   
  
          “For now.”

          “Where are we going?”   
  
          Hannibal indulges him, “We’re paying a quick visit on our way out of the city.  Just long enough to administer to your wound and perhaps have a quick bite.”   
  
          Will stirs.  Adrenaline hits his bloodstream like liquid nitrogen.  “No,” he declares.  “No, we are not stopping for a _bite_.  Stop here.  That looks like a pharmacy.”   
  
          “That’s a corner store.”   
  
          He grumbles and then adds, “Just find a pharmacy.”

          “We don’t need a pharmacy,” Hannibal replies casually.  “I’m confident our stop will have everything we need.”   
  
          “You mean your _meal_ will have everything we need.  Let’s not mince words as well as people, Hannibal.”   
  
           The good doctor smiles.  He casts his first glance at Will since getting into the car.  “You’re looking pale.”   
  
          “I’m fine,” but he says it too forcefully.  Hannibal knows he’s not.  Worse, Will now knows he’s not.  He can hear the desperation in his voice, the thread of _this is a terrible idea_ and _what the hell am I doing_ constricting his tone into a tight, crackly knot.  The pain isn’t as terrible as it should be, especially with constant pressure.  His thoughts are beginning to fizzle. 

          “Tell me,” Hannibal prompts him.

          “I think I’m going into shock.”

          “Hmm,” the car accelerates up a hill.  Will closes his eyes and lets himself drift.  He’s shaken back into awareness again by Hannibal.  “Stay with me, Will.”

          He opts for the direct approach.  About the only thought keeping him going right now: “You’re going to kill someone.”

          “I’m not going to kill you,” Hannibal slows to a more respectable speed and pulls around a corner.  The houses on the hill are more of Florence’s ancient opulence, modernized just enough to remain standing.  They’re warm and glowing in the afternoon sun.  Will lets them raise his temperature back to normal.  “I hardly think you’ll begrudge me Inspector Pazzi though.”   
  
          “Hannibal.”   
  
          He parks discretely, hiding his vehicle behind an overflowing garden Will assumes is out of sight from Pazzi’s home.  They are at Pazzi’s home aren’t they?  There to raid the medicine cabinet and Pazzi’s own flesh.  Will has to gather his thoughts before saying more.  The loss of momentum has left him spinning.  “Hannibal, I already said I’d go with you.”   
  
          “Are you proposing a trade, Will?  Your life for Inspector Pazzi’s?”   
  
          “No.  I’m proposing that we get the hell out of Florence before Jack Crawford, former head of the FBI’s Behavioural Sciences Unit, accurately deduces that you’re targeting the Inspector who just fired on you in broad daylight.”  The logic is air tight on that one.  Will’s still not surprised when Hannibal exits the car after engaging in one of his patented blank stares.  The trunk opens, then slams shut again.  Will barely catches himself when his door opens.

          Hannibal carries a medical kit in one hand and helps Will up with the other, slinging one of Will’s arms over his shoulder before the younger man can protest.  Hannibal clamps then clamps his hand down on Will’s wound before walking.  He continues their conversation as if Will isn’t just dangling off his shoulder.  “Inspector Pazzi is not going to allow Jack Crawford to arrest me, not with Mason’s reward.  His house is the last place Crawford will be allowed to search.”   
  
          The tugging on his side is unbearable.  Will’s vision blanks out into red and white and brown.  He digs his heels into the ground and covers for his weakness by focusing on his own moral outrage.  “I am not going to be an accomplice,” he stammers.  When his vision returns, Will finds Hannibal staring at him blankly.  He stares right back.  “I’m also not going to be an accessory.”

          Hannibal doesn’t move, but his expression does change to one of intrigue.  “And yet here you are,” he says, adjusting Will’s grip on his shoulders. 

          Will glares at the pathway, at the forest, at the hollow-eyed villa in his path.  Inspector Pazzi lives in a house fit for murder.  It’s like he picked it specifically because a cannibal could butcher him discretely within.  “Yes,” he comments glumly, “here I am.”

          “You’ll behave yourself then?”

          “I’m not going to let you kill the man,” Will has to stop one more time to get his bearings.  His side is in agony, and his shoe squeaks from the blood collecting in his sock.  Hannibal has to take on more of his weight before they can continue.  He seems only too happy to: lethargy means Will won’t be able to put up much of a fight in Pazzi’s defence. 

          By the time they reach the door, Will’s mouth has gone dry and his head is filled with cotton.  He sags heavily against Hannibal’s side.  The doorbell chimes dully behind the door.

          Will can’t quite muster the venom the moment deserves, “He’s not going to be home yet.”   
          Hannibal doesn’t reply.  He just flicks the corners of his lips up in a smile that only the devil can see.

          The door opens revealing a statuesque brunette.  She is horrified by the sight of Will, then sympathetic, and then horrified again.

          After a hurried exchange of Italian pleasantries, the woman pulls the door wife open and ushers both Hannibal and Will inside. 

          Will tries to find the words that will communicate the danger she’s in, but he speaks about as much Italian as she does English, which is to say none at all.  Still, he has to try.  “Whatever he told you, he’s lying,” Will gestures to to get his point across.  “Get out now.  Call the Polizia!  Polizia!”  She nods to him and repeats the word in what he thinks at first is agreement.

          Hannibal disabuses him of that notion.  “I told her you were delirious,” he says, then continues speaking in Italian.  The women converses with him as she walks them into the foyer and points them toward the other rooms in the house. 

          Will watches in horror as she closes the door behind them.   

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!

         

 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it’s all over, there’s intestines swirled on the cobblestones, and Will is suddenly appreciative of the fact that Hannibal gutted him on the ground floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> This next chapter gave me some pause – hence the delay. I liked the structure but had to consider whether it was superfluous. I can do a lot of superfluous things. I think it works. I hope you do too.   
> I should warn you, dear readers, that I just copied dialogue from the novel Hannibal in this one. I also included an ad hoc, improvised version of Pazzi’s death. As a result, this chapter is still spoiler-y. And bloody.   
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

Four

 

          When it’s all over, there’s intestines swirled on the cobblestones.  Pazzi’s legs dangle like a chandelier in the archway, blood trickling from the soles of his shoes.  Florence is spread out on a blanket beyond them, pink and indigo in the falling sun, a stark, unsettling contrast to the macabre image framing the veranda.

          Will stands in silent acceptance of the scene.  He clutches his stomach sympathetically for Pazzi.  Hannibal inquires with a look, chest heaving, as he reels from the fight.  “I’m suddenly appreciative of the fact that you gutted me on the ground floor,” Will replies humourlessly. 

          Hannibal turns his attention back to the mess Pazzi’s made on the walkway.  “You incapacitated Signora Pazzi,” he notes. 

          “She means nothing,” Will argues.  “If she remembers anything of our visit, she won’t be telling the Polizia anything they don’t already know.” 

          Hannibal nods.  He retreats into the house to clean himself.  “We’ll be leaving shortly,” he tells Will.  “Mason’s men are not far behind.”

          “You’re not in the mood for more carnage?”

          “I’m not in the mood to see Signora Pazzi killed.”  He doesn’t say whether he or Mason’s men will do the killing. 

          Will deserves some food for thought.            

 

* * *

 

          A few things that become clear the second Will is settled in the kitchen, coat off and shirt open to reveal the long gash along his hip and lower back. 

          First, Signora Pazzi and Hannibal are acquainted.  That much is clear from their proximity at the sink.  He washes his hands, she prepares a bowl of warm water and procures a fresh towel.  They speak in soft voices and exchange sentences that Will’s mind provides subtitles for: amidst all their chatter about him (indicated by the quick glances he’s receiving), they’re asking about each other.  Signora’s eyes gleam; Hannibal’s remain darkened. 

          “She seems perfectly polite to me,” Will notes when Hannibal returns to his side.

          “Signora Pazzi is very polite,” Hannibal says, pulling Will’s hand away from his wound to inspect it.  Blood spurts anew to fill the gash and Hannibal applies new pressure.  Will gasps and clings to his chair for support.  “Occasionally, though, life does not afford a rude meal.  Beggars can’t be choosers.”

          Will shoots her a concerned look.  Signora has the phone pressed to her ear and is speaking hurriedly.  “Who is she calling?”   
  
          “Her husband,” Hannibal replaces Will’s hand and sets about preparing a needle for sutures.  His medical kit has everything for the living and the dead, apparently.  “I managed to convince her not to phone for an ambulance, but I insisted she phone her husband and let him know I was here.”   
  
          “You told her your name?”

          “Signora Pazzi knows me by my alias.  Her husband should be along shortly, I expect, once he knows I am here.” 

          “And the Polizia?”

          “Inspector Pazzi would not want to share me with them.”

          Will gasps for breath.  The pressure Hannibal is applying drives the air from his lungs.  “Mason?”   
  
          Hannibal nods his understanding, “Mason has sent men, no doubt, to ensure my capture.  I doubt Inspector Pazzi will invite them to his house any more than the Polizia, not with Signora.”

          The phone appears near Hannibal’s head.  Signora Pazzi utters something.  Hannibal takes it, patting Will’s shoulder sympathetically, then ruins the air of calm he’s projecting by speaking in English.  “Commendatore, how nice to speak to you again.  I’m sorry to take advantage of your hospitality, but a friend of mine has been injured and we required a place to recoup.”

          Whatever Pazzi says is inaudible.  Will tries to catch the attention of Signora before she disappears and he fails.  Hannibal’s demeanor remains unchanged: he is still pleasant with Pazzi, terrifyingly pleasant, even while saying, “On a related note, I am giving very serious thought to eating your wife.”

          Signora Pazzi returns to the kitchen just in time to hear the death threat, but she makes no sign of comprehending what Hannibal has said.  He transitions back into Italian and says something Will can only assume is normal, non-cannibalistic, and even halfway pleasant given that Signora ends up smiling softly. 

          Hannibal smiles back as he hangs up.

          The Italian chatter continues as Hannibal tends to Will’s wound.  Signora plays nurse as he lances the area with lidocaine and proceeds to stitch the site closed.  The medical kit is well-stocked with everything a killer would need: scalpels, hypodermics, vials, gauze, suture kits.  Will considers grabbing a blade, but his nausea spikes suddenly – not from the doctor’s touch, which he can’t feel, but the proximity.  The blood loss.  The disorienting flashbacks to Hannibal’s kitchen floor.  He grips his scar protectively, half-expecting to catch a handful of bowel when he does. 

          “That healed nicely,” Hannibal appraises the scar as he works.  “Your surgeon did some fine work.”

          “You gave him a fine wound to work with.”

          Hannibal does not disagree.  “Inspector Pazzi did not.  You must have been in pain, Will.”   
  
          Will closes his eyes against the dizziness.  He releases his next breath slowly.  “Does that please you?”

          The doctor hums.  _Yes_.  Will winces as the tracts of his skin are sewn back together.  Signora makes a comment and departs for the sink again.  Will follows her out of the corner of his eye.  Her image expands and contracts at odd, rhythmic angles.  “I am not going to let you eat her.”

          Hannibal finishes with his task and snips the threads of the sutures.  He takes Will’s hand in his and plants his fingers on the wrist, “Let’s not forget what happened the last time we were in a kitchen together.”   
  
          “How could I?” Will accepts the glass of water that Signora brings him with his free hand.  His arm shakes, but he still manages to take a drink.  She takes the glass back when he offers.  “Are you going to kill the Inspector?”

          Hannibal drops Will’s wrist.  “You need to tell me if you start to disassociate.”  
  
          “Hannibal.”   
          “However, I’m optimistic that driving in your condition won’t kill you.”   
  
          Will grabs him by the wrist as he rises, “Don’t.  Please, don’t.”   
  
          Hannibal doesn’t glare, doesn’t glower, doesn’t soften his gaze.  He doesn’t even take Will’s hand off his wrist.  He very gently and very calmly waits for the sound of a car arriving in the driveway before walking off down the hall.

          Signora heads him off.  Will calls her back to the kitchen with a begging quality in his voice.  Hannibal doesn’t stop her from returning.  That’s how comfortable he is with the arrangement.  Kill Pazzi.  Maybe kill his wife.  Either way, the good doctor is happy.

          “Please,” Will begs her, staring her in the eyes, trying to transmit his thoughts across the language barrier.  “Please, call the Polizia.  Polizia!  Please, just call them.  Call them now.”   
  
          She pats him on the shoulders and speaks hurriedly, something Will’s sure is along the lines of, “You are delirious.  This is the blood loss talking.  Would you like more water?”   
  
          The door slams into the wall when it is kicked open.  Signora nearly leaps out of her skin.  She starts towards the hallway again, but Will takes her wrist to stop her. 

          Will can’t tell whether Hannibal survives the three gunshots that ring out from the foyer, especially not when Signora screams.  Adrenaline gives him the strength to rise out of the chair and grab her.  One hand over her mouth muffles the scream and the other arm around her waist keeps her from struggling.  Pain and dizziness become great motivators.  He has to hold on because letting go will mean falling apart again.  He’ll melt to the floor in a pool of his own blood and have to listen to his heart stop beating.

          He listens carefully, filtering out the sounds of his own ragged breath and Signora’s struggles for signs of life.  Very quickly, it becomes clear that Hannibal and Pazzi are both still alive.  They are fighting again, this time moving to higher ground.  Will can hear them climbing the stairs in battle this time, until finally, a heavy thud drops against the wood and echoes through the house.  There’s a pause, then the sounds of someone being dragged across the floor overhead.

          Signora weeps.  Weeps and screams and fights.  Will digs his fingers into her neck until she goes limp.  He binds her hands with one of the zip ties from Hannibal’s murder kit, shoves the rag in her mouth, and buttons up his shirt.

          He doesn’t think twice about any of it.  Hannibal, the bastard, always did manage to bring out the worst in him.

 

* * *

 

          Will is going to interrupt them.  Hannibal can hear the scuffling in the kitchen below, can feel the house pulse with the lad’s desperation.  He has to hurry, though he will not be denied his satisfaction.  Pazzi is greedy, and greed is a powerful enough motivator to compensate for the Commandatore’s lack of intelligence. 

          He cuffs Pazzi’s hands behind his back, binds his ankles with his shoelaces, and then scans the room for a noose.  There’s an extension cord running along the wall that does nicely and is fitted around the inspector’s neck by the time his eyelids begin to flutter.  A fresh pair of socks makes for a decent gag.  By the time Pazzi has regained consciousness, Hannibal has dragged him to the balcony and is attaching the extension cord to the rails.

          “I have no need to hear your voice, Commandatore, only to have the answers to the questions I provide.  Cooperate, and it may be convenient for me to leave Florence without my meal.”  At that, Pazzi stops struggling.  He lets Hannibal balance him against the rails of the balcony.  The sounds of the struggle below are starting to soften.  Hannibal’s knife hand itches.  “Blink twice for yes, once for no: was it Mason Verger you sold me to?”   
          Pazzi glares at him.  His glare is rheumy and teary, a world-weary gaze.  Time has not been guide to the Inspector.  Hannibal brings his scalpel to rest against Pazzi’s stomach.  “Was it Mason Verger you sold me to?”

          Two blinks.  Of course.  “Are they here now?”  Single blink.  “Are they on their way?”  One blink?  Two blink?  Hannibal sighs.  “Was that a single blink?  Now is not the time to be getting confused, Commandatore, not when Signora has been incapacitated.”  And she has been: the silence from downstairs attests to that.  Pazzi smartens up and manages to perform two blinks. 

          Hannibal smiles and breathes a sigh.  Mason’s men are on the way.  All the more reason to run.  He grips a handful of Pazzi’s hair in his hand, dragging the Inspector’s head back so that he can see the city.  “I was content to live quietly in Florence, Commandatore, but if I must die, it will not be by Mason Verger’s methods.  Your alliance with him is very rude, and I hate rude people.”  Pazzi struggles, grumbling and cursing in muffled tones.  Hannibal lets the Inspector look him in the eye.  “Your wife, on the other hand, was very accommodating.  Tell me, yes or no, if Mason’s men are close, and I will leave without harvesting her lovely circulatory system.”   
  
          More muffled screaming on Pazzi’s part.  Hannibal has to dig the scalpel against his throat to get him to focus.  One blink greets him.  Hannibal’s smile broadens.  “Thank you, Commandatore.  You have been most helpful.  One final question,” he drags the scalpel down, down, down, lightly grazing Pazzi’s chest.  “What’s it to be: bowels in,” he presses the scalpel against Pazzi’s abdomen, “or bowels out – like Judas?”

          The sight of enraged, furious blinking greets Hannibal.  His smile disappears.  “Are you confused?  Well, I’ll decide for you, if you’ll permit me.”

          Pazzi permits.  His abdomen splits open around the scalpel, spilling blood over Hannibal’s forearm.  Heaving him over the rail is a pleasurably sight. 

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!

 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will draws a frightening conclusion about his own psyche and Hannibal is generally in high spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> It’s been a busy two weeks, but I finally have the next installment! Thank you so much to everyone who has been keeping up with the story and for the lovely comments encouraging me to continue. They really helped get me back into the habit of writing after my travel this week.   
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

Five

 

          “They’ll be looking for your car,” Will says by way of a distraction.  The quiet of the car is louder than the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. 

          Hannibal is prepared.  Will doesn’t know how, doesn’t remember, the walk from Pazzi’s house is a big, nauseating blur, but that just raises Hannibal’s advantage exponentially. “I switched the plates,” the doctor says, “That should buy us some time until we reach the border.” 

          “We’ll never make it out of the city.”

          “Still indulging in wishful thinking,” Hannibal sighs.

          Will defends himself, “Signora Pazzi’s not dead.”  His wishful thinking has given him that at least.    
  
          Hannibal wastes no time disabusing him of his idealism, “No, but Inspector Pazzi is.  I think it’s time for you to embrace the reality of our situation.”   
  
          “Your situation.”

          “ _Our_ situation.”

          “You manipulated me.”   
  
          “I’ve manipulated you before.  Why did you think I would do differently now, especially when threatened or cornered?”

          “I didn’t expect you to lie to me about the hospital.”   
  
          “You’re the FBI’s finest profiler, and I’m an intelligent psychopath.  Either one of us is lying about who we are, or you wanted to be manipulated.”   
  
          “I didn’t want to be manipulated,” Will shudders from how sullen he sounds.  And from the clawing pain in his back.  He tries to adjust himself on the seat, but there’s no position that doesn’t strain his wound.  “I wanted to bring you in.”

          “More wishful thinking.”   
  
          “Evidently.”   
  
          Hannibal hums - neutrally - reserving judgment for once.  “How is your wound?”   
  
          “It’s fine,” Will says without his voice cracking.  He suppresses the urge to move again, and, when he notices Hannibal looking, he deflects, “You’re worried.”

          “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”   
  
          “I lost a lot of blood on your kitchen floor.”   
  
          “True, but I intended for you to lose a lot of blood then.”   
  
          “So did Inspector Pazzi,” and the thought prompts Will to ask.  “Were you trying to kill me in Baltimore?”   
  
          The question has bothered him since waking up in the hospital.  Disembowelment is a terrible way to die, as Will well knows, but he’s also keenly aware of how wretched disembowelment is to survive. 

          Hannibal doesn’t even have to consider his answer.  He knew exactly what he was doing in Baltimore.  “I was punishing you in Baltimore.  My purpose was harm, as much as possible.  Did I harm you sufficiently in Baltimore, Will?”   
  
          His bottom lip quivers.  He doesn’t mean for it to, tries to hide it by leaning his face against the window, but of course, Hannibal sees.  Hannibal can probably hear the flap of his lip against the air.  “How would you measure sufficient harm?” Will asks.  “You committed so much harm that night.”   
  
          “Comparatively, then: what hurt more?  The cut to your gut-”

          “Stop.”

          “-or the cut to Abigail’s throat?”   
  
          Will tries not to see her lying there, blood geysering from her neck.  Her hand fanning through the waves of red spilling over the floor.  He tries not to think about the terror in her eyes when the blade first appeared. 

          He tries, but trying never was enough with Hannibal.

          “She didn’t know you were going to kill her.”

          “Neither do lambs brought to slaughter.”  
  
          “Abigail wasn’t a lamb.”   
  
          “Does that make her death less cruel?”   
  
          “No,” Will feels her fear fresh, new, like he’s back there on the kitchen floor trying to hold the blood inside her body and his own.  His eyelids flutter.  The quiet of the car unnerves him.  “No, that makes it crueller.  You saved Abigail from her father only to take his place.”

          “I wasn’t trying to kill Abigail.”   
  
          Will forces himself to laugh without smiling.  “Yes, you cut her neck to the bone just to harm.”

          “It harmed you,” Hannibal looks at him.

          The logic makes sense, at least for Hannibal, whose curiosity remains unsatisfied with absolutes.  Killing Abigail meant he would never be able to exploit her suffering again, in the same way that killing Will would rob him of an equal. 

          Will breaks into a full-body shudder.  Physically, he’s too keyed up to sleep, but he can’t bear to hold himself up in Hannibal’s presence.  “Did it harm you?”

          Hannibal’s nod is matter-of-fact.  “Yes, though not as much as your betrayal.”

          Will is quiet for a long while after that.  His breathing tells Hannibal that he’s not asleep, merely avoiding further conversation.  Talking about Abigail appears to have the same effect on Will as slitting her throat.  Hannibal decides to keep that in mind.

          He avoids the highways, keeping instead to the labyrinth of country roads weaving the Italian countryside.  Moonlight illuminates the road just enough to see, but Hannibal is familiar with the area.  Jack Crawford isn’t.  He doesn’t dispose of human bodies as frequently as Hannibal.

          “Where are we?”

          Sleeps clings tightly to Will’s voice.  Between the darkness and the heat, his own weakness and exhaustion, he’s starting to fade. 

          Hannibal dismisses the question – not because he doesn’t want to answer, but because it is worth answering.  Will is about to nod off, and they’ll keep moving until Florence is a distant memory.  “Go to sleep, Will,” he urges.

          Will grumbles and digs his fingers into his eyelids.  “Where are we going?”   
  
          “I was going to ask you: north?  West?  East?  We could make our way across all three, though I think for tonight, a quiet bed would serve our purposes.”   
  
          Will shifts and winces in agreement.  “You should get some rest,” Hannibal reminds him.  “You’ve lost blood, and I can’t provide a transfusion.”

          “I don’t want to sleep.  Actually, I don’t want to want to fall asleep.  That’s probably more accurate.”   
  
          “Care to keep me company?”

          “I’m not sure I’m comfortable in your company.”

          “I would not have stitched you up if I intended to take something out.”

          Will tosses his head, “Good point.”

          “Why the internal conflict about sleeping?”   
  
          “Minnesota.” 

          Hannibal doesn’t know what to make of the answer.  He remembers several trips to Minnesota and can’t be sure which one Will is referencing.  Thankfully, the lad is cogent enough to explain, “You took me to Abigail’s home in Minnesota: when I was a fugitive and you were the abetter.  I slept most of the drive.”   
          “You were exhausted,” Hannibal doesn’t see how this generates unease.  “You had been arrested, processed, and interrogated; then transferred, escaped, and arrived at my office.”   
          “With encephalitis,” Will glares. 

          Hannibal ignores him.  “Motion and heat are soothing.  I fail to see your concern.”

          “I’m an insomniac.  There’s not a lot that guarantees my sleeping, but I barely remember getting into the car for that trip.”

          “Again,” Hannibal notes, “not unusual for your physical state at the time.”  
  
          Will sighs.  His eye are closed, and his body has finally loosened to the point where his limbs no longer shudder.  “I was starting to figure it out – in your office.  _What you are_.  Yet the second I got into a locked vehicle with you en route to an isolated area, I fell asleep.”

          “You slept nearly the whole way there.”

          “Yes.  And now I know what you are, but I still desperately want to sleep.  You just killed a man, and I’m comfortable sleeping in your presence.  Probably more comfortable than outside of it…”  Will winces from the tug in his back and on his heart. “I’m falling asleep because this feels safe.”

          Hannibal’s smile is implied, “Fresh from a crime scene.”

          “Fresh from a crime scene,” Will agrees, “I’m perfectly safe with you, right now, here, aren’t I?”

          “I’m glad you’re with me, Will.”   
  
          “That doesn’t mean you’re not out to cause more harm.”   
  
          “No,” and Hannibal would never promise otherwise.  “But right now, here, yes, you are safe.  From everyone.”   
  
          Everyone except Hannibal Lecter.

          And that thought cradles Will in the dark.    

* * *

Happy reading!      

 


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s neither Venice nor Milan, but the hotel is private and Will needs medical attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I am so, so sorry. SO SORRY. I didn’t mean to get so far behind, but between wedding planning (we’re hitting the one month away point and I have obviously forgotten EVERYTHING. The neuroses have gone into overdrive. Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh) and report cards (ohmygoshohmygosh) I haven’t had time to pen anything. GAH. 
> 
> There is more dialogue from _Hannibal_ (the book/movie) in this chapter. I am just stealing lines now. Sorry for that too :(
> 
> Thank you, dear readers and reviewers, who kept at me to continue. Your messages were so helpful, and I feel awful that I gave anyone the impression this story was being abandoned. Almost an entire month has gone by. I’m sorry! Please enjoy.

* * *

 

Six

 

          The ebb and flow of Will’s breath lengthens and deepens like an outgoing tide.  Despite his trepidations (or his trepidations about trepidations, as is so often the case), he sleeps, head turned to the window so only his frayed mess of curls is visible.

          Hannibal takes advantage.  Well, more advantage. Will’s understanding of Italian is clearly limited.  His conception of geography can’t be much stronger. Hannibal travels north then, sadly past Venice, and ends up in Susegana. One night, he promises himself. One night, a vehicle switch, and then they will head across the border toward…wherever Hannibal pleases.

          The bed and breakfast is on the outskirts amidst rolling hills and a profound view of the city.  Hannibal’s stayed here before, is momentarily pained by it not being Florence, but knows it to match his tastes perfectly.  Better still, there are no landmarks nearby. The staff don’t ask questions. _No television_. In Will’s eyes, their accommodation is another beautiful, ancient building seemingly in the middle of the nowhere Italy.  Will could try and describe it for Jack, but even the head of the behavioural sciences unit would have trouble placing it.

          He leaves Will sleeping in the car while he arranges for a room, while he cleans out the car in preparation for its abandonment, while he plots the elimination of another guest for blowing smoke in his face on his walk to the lobby. All the things Will wouldn’t want to see him doing. All the things he will no doubt ask about when he wakes and Hannibal will only be too happy to reveal to him. 

          It’s always fun to watch Will’s mind wander through the bloody possibilities.  Almost better than watching Will enact them. 

          _Almost_.

          One last advantage before waking him: Hannibal checks his vitals. Will’s far too pale, unsurprising, and there’s the salty scent of heat rising from his skin. His dressings need changing. Antibiotics need administering. “Will?” Hannibal withdraws his hand. “Will, can you hear me?”   
  
           Without opening his eyes: “Where are we?”

          The doctor smiles.  He has missed Will.  “I’ve rented a room for the night.  Can you walk?”

          Will nods, but he’s not sure that’s true.  His eyes are barely open. “You may have to haul me through the front door.”   
  
          “I did suggest to the staff that you were inebriated. You certainly look it.”

          “Did they ask about the bruises on your face?”

          “They did.  I told them they were your doing.  Liquor does not agree with your normally passive constitution.”

          “ _You_ do not agree with my normally passive constitution,” Will rubs his eyes. He’s finally waking up. The pain from his back makes his lips go into a taut line.

          Hannibal holds out his arm, “I would park closer, but I don’t want anyone to recognize the vehicle.”

          “You’re swapping.”

          “Later.  Are you hungry?”

          “That depends.  Are you cooking?”   
  
          “Not for what passes as a kitchenette in our room.”   
  
          “Then yes, I’m famished,” Will takes hold of Hannibal’s arm and rises from the vehicle.  He collapses against the back door almost immediately.  His left leg isn’t supporting his weight.  The pain makes his breath come in quick gasps.  He gets a shade paler from the change in altitude. 

          His eyes close and he begins shivering.  Hannibal thinks he’s going to pass out again.  Instead, Will insists – as best as his quavering voice can manage, “Take me with you when you change vehicles.”   
  
          “So you can report to Jack Crawford?” Hannibal doesn’t bother to laugh.  “No, Will.  I think you’ll stay here.”   
  
          “I don’t think I can make it to the door.”   
  
          “You’ll make it,” Hannibal buttons Will’s jacket and straightens his collar.  Neither makes him look as presentable as the space demands, a fact Will picks up on.

          “I look rude,” he notes bitterly.

          Hannibal knows when he’s being goaded into a fight, but the barb doesn’t bristle him in the slightest.  “You’ve looked rude before,” Hannibal says, “but I’ve always found your rudeness to be one of your more charming personality traits, aftershave notwithstanding.”

          Will’s shivering quiets somewhat when he’s pressed against Hannibal’s side again, though the good doctor does end up hauling him through the front door.  The walk depletes whatever reserves of strength remained in his body, and as dismayed as Hannibal is to be seen dragging Will over the threshold, he’s happy the former profiler is so pliable for the moment.  He may not even have to sedate Will before leaving to arrange for new transportation.

          The constant looks from hotel staff prompt Will to break his silence.  “Any one of them could recognize you,” he taunts, “could recognize me.  How many dishevelled Americans pass through this part of the country, do you think?”   
  
          Hannibal ignores his question and poses another, more important one, “What is it you think Jack Crawford will do if we are captured?  I followed the course of your disgrace and public shaming.”

          Will grimaces.  Hannibal has pulled on his stitches almost accidently.  “Enthusiastically?” he wonders aloud.

          “At first,” he so enjoys being honest with Will.  “I was angry that you betrayed me in Baltimore.  The slander levelled at you by the American news outlets brought me a petty sort of satisfaction.  I especially liked the photos of you from the hospital.”

          “You liked seeing Freddie Lounds betray me.”

          “It was my only consolation for not phoning you to declare that I told you so.”

          “You didn’t tell me so.”

          “Then why did you pretend to kill her, hm?”

          “I didn’t want to give you the pleasure of actually killing her,” Will hisses as they pass around a corner.  His legs get tangled, but Hannibal presses forward with them dragging on the hardwood.  Will’s stitches aren’t in threat of being broken yet. 

          “And spared yourself the misery of being _Tattle Crime_ ’s banner for months.”

          Will heaves a shuddering breath.  “I didn’t know about that.”

          “It was tasteless,” Hannibal concedes.

          “Freddie Lounds is tasteless.”   
  
          Silence is the welcome sound of their agreement.  Will breaks it with a question of practicality.  “You didn’t book us on the second floor,” he can’t hide the begging quality of his voice.  Will doesn’t want to climb stairs in his condition.

          “The thought did cross my mind,” Hannibal admits.  “I can always restitch your back.”

          “Ah, but you can’t punish me either if I’m dead.”   
  
          Hannibal slows down suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to him, which oddly, it has.  He doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before.  He’s hurting Will out of habit, not out of malice.  “I’m not trying to punish you,” he somehow makes it sound like he’s always known.  He checks Will’s eyes to see if the former profiler senses his deception, but Will seems too relieved by their more comfortable pace to notice.  Hannibal has to give himself away, is compelled to.  This is Will after all.  “I’m not trying to punish you anymore.”

          The eye contact is brief, but they’re both so aware, so present, that it seems to last a lot longer.  Hannibal only speaks again when Will looks away.  “I forgave you in Baltimore.  I didn’t want to forgive you, but I did.”   
  
          He leans Will against the stone wall beside their door as he reaches for the key.  The room smells of clean linen and countryside, with just a hint of ozone from the industry beyond.  Hannibal wishes again he’d had more time to plan his escape.  They could have stayed in Venice or Milan, somewhere opulent instead of merely acceptable. 

          Still, the hotel is private, the room locks securely, and the phone was easy to disconnect. 

          Will waits until Hannibal lays out a towel on the bed before sitting.  Getting blood on the sheets serves no one.  Hannibal already had his medical kit open at the foot of the bed and is pulling on gloves as Will strips his jacket and shirt for the second time that day. 

          Redness and irritation are visible around the edges of the gauze.  Hannibal’s disappointment must be audible, since Will responds with, “This is going to hurt more, isn’t it?”   
          “There are early signs of infection,” Hannibal observes.  “I may have to remove the stitches to clean the wound.”

          “So much for not punishing me.”

          “This isn’t punishment.  This is mercy.”

          “Spoken like a psychopath.”

          “Spoken like a doctor,” Hannibal counters, “but I see your point.” He peels the gauze from Will’s back.  Yes, he will have to remove the stitches and irrigate the skin.  There may be fragments of Pazzi’s bullet stuck in Will’s skin.

          He reaches for his kit, digs around until he finds a fresh needle and the vial of midazolam.  Will catches him in the corner of his eye, knows, but says nothing.  Hannibal’s curiosity is piqued.  “You do trust me, don’t you, Will.” 

          It really ought to be a question instead of a statement of fact.  Even Will senses that.  He grips the mattress and wonders aloud, “What more could you possibly do to me?”

          Hannibal waits until the needle is in Will’s arm before answering, “Plenty, Will. Plenty.”

          Honesty is a beautiful thing. 

          The drug washes through Will.  His shaking transforms into swaying.  Hannibal has to hold him upright.  Will’s head comes to rest in the crook of Hannibal’s arm.

          “I forgive you too, Hannibal,” he mutters.

          Hannibal tries to not give himself away, but his hand still shakes.  He pretends not to have heard.  “What was that?”   
  
          Will adjusts his head drowsily.  “I forgive you too.  Forgave you a long time ago, I think.  I didn’t want to either.  I just…did.”

          “Forgiveness is funny that way.”

          Will’s head bobs to nod, then drops against Hannibal again.  Warmth radiates up through the doctor’s arm.  He can’t keep working, has to stop and just hold Will in an awkward, backwards hug.  “Forgiveness was easier than hating you.  I’m still not sure how that happens.  I…I really hated you.”   
  
          “Past tense,” Hannibal purrs.  “What changed?”

          Will mutters something unintelligible.  Hannibal shakes him.  “Will,” he asks, “what changed?  You said you stopped hating me.  Why?”

          “Because I was alone,” Will replies softly, sadly, “and I think I hated that more.”

          Hannibal rubs a hand between Will’s shoulderblades, up his neck.  The gesture eases the last of the tension from the former profiler’s body.  Hannibal lays him gently onto the bed, and before Will’s eyes close, reassures him, “You’re not alone anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!  
         


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever broke into the room is not a member of law enforcement. They’re here in an unofficial capacity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I am so grateful that people have been enjoying this fic and encouraging me along the way. It has been difficult to find inspiration during the he-ate-us, far more so this season than last season. You all make this so much more bearable and easier to get my butt back in gear to writing. The good news is that this chapter sets up some necessary conflict. Things are getting interesting for Hannibal and Will!   
> Thank you for being so patient. Enjoy!

* * *

 

Seven

 

          Hannibal Lecter has never denied himself the pleasure of anything, so he takes his time with his ministrations to Will.  He indulges in the act of taking Will apart, especially now that he has the opportunity to put the younger man back together.  Will’s back becomes a tiny testament to the contradictions of their relationship, their delicate negotiation between breaking and mending, even if it wasn’t he who did the breaking this time. 

          The bullet fragments are miniscule.  Lecter peels them out like fish bones.  He abrades the tissue to be certain he’s found them all, then gently bathes the wound with clean water and alcohol.  He sutures the wound in a neat line, satisfied that though it was Pazzi’s bullet that made the wound, it is he that Will will credit for the scar. 

          Speaking of scars, Hannibal administers another round of sedation after an injection of antibiotics.  He then rolls Will and admires the scar on his abdomen.  The surgeon was trying to minimize the damage, but there’s no amount of skill that could keep a wound like that from scarring.  Malice had prompted Hannibal to butcher, not dissect.  He wanted torn flesh and ruptured organs, wanted to hack Will’s insides into an unsalvageable mess.  The result is a malicious track of scar tissue just below Will’s naval.  Will is another crooked branch of Hannibal’s family tree, born – as so many members of the Lecter family are – in blood and vengeance. 

          Hannibal touches, has to touch, has to feel the aftermath.  Like he’s cataloguing the damage after a natural disaster.  What repairs need to be made, what can’t be salvaged, what has been washed away by the storm... Will has pulled himself together, but destruction always did cut deep with him.  Scar tissue is just disguise.  Will wears it as comfortably as he did the mask of a murderer.  Under the skin is always a different story. 

          Almost immediately, Hannibal’s satisfaction deteriorates into disappointment.  Will’s so heavily sedated that he can’t register pain, let alone Hannibal’s touch.  One of his more attractive qualities is his reactiveness, and now there’s no reaction.  There’s a vacancy in Will’s musculature that the chemicals have ensured, one that allows Hannibal to return Will to his stomach, cover him with a blanket, and depart. 

 

* * *

 

          The killer’s checklist is shorter than people expect.  Hannibal keeps it that way.  He can live luxuriously when he is hidden, but revealed, he lives simply.  It’s one of the reasons people have difficulty capturing him.  Jack Crawford can’t catch what he cannot predict, and Hannibal thrives on unpredictability. 

          He would like to destroy Will’s cheap, bloody suit with fire, but that lacks the subtlety he needs.  Instead, the suit makes a wonderful resident of the town’s sewer system.  Hannibal will purchase a replacement when the stores open. 

          He steals medical supplies from a local clinic by incapacitating the doctor.  More bandages and gauze, another full course of antibiotics, some painkillers, syringes, a scalpel: the trip is fruitful and all too easy.  This town does not receive visitors like him often. 

          The car is next.  Hannibal parks where it will be swiftly impounded.  He wipes down the interior, trashes the plates, and doesn’t look back.  The sun is coming up, the town is waking, and he is walking into a new life. 

          One with Will Graham. 

* * *

 

 

          Something is wrong when he returns to the room.  Hannibal can smell blood from outside the door.  He moves to insert the key into the lock only to find the lock has been tampered with.  Someone has picked it clumsily with a sharp object.  A knife perhaps. 

          Jack Crawford would have simply kicked the door down, not to mention brought an entourage of the Polizia with him.  No, whoever broke into the room is not a member of law enforcement.  They’re here in an unofficial capacity.

          Hannibal lets himself in and locks the door behind him.

          The room is silent.  Blood is so thick in the air that Hannibal tastes it on his tongue, along with the wet stink of unwashed bodies.  He’s smelled that particular brand of body odour before: Mason Verger’s hired hands, the ones who insist on sleeping with their masters’ pigs.  Hannibal doesn’t credit Mason Verger’s hiring practices.  No doubt they are as shoddy or shoddier as they were before.  These ones must have just gotten lucky, or else stopping with Will has made him sloppy.  Perhaps a combination of the two.

          A trail of blood leads Hannibal to the other side of the bed despite his better judgment.  Will was unconscious when he left the hotel room, deeply unconscious.  Too unconscious to defend himself if attacked.  Hannibal needs to see what they have done to understand what their punishment will be, but he does not want to see Will Graham unmade, especially by someone else’s hand.  He does not know what will cause him deeper regret: that Will is dead, or that Mason is too damaged already for Hannibal to adequately punish him.

          The stink of unwashed human gets stronger as Hannibal rounds the corner of the bed, allowing him to breathe a sigh of relief.  One of Will’s attackers, a giant, grotesque lump of a human, has been stabbed several times in the chest.  He died poorly from a collapsed lung and wears a sour expression on his face, probably in anticipation of how much worse he’ll smell in death. 

          Hannibal turns his attention then to the closed bathroom door.  The smell of blood is overwhelming the odour of Mason’s hired hand this time.  Will’s blood, perhaps?  He was clearly conscious enough to kill one.  Two seems like a tall order.  Hannibal waits for a moment; there’s no harm in waiting, in bracing for the impact.  The bathroom is silent.  The fight’s long over.  Hannibal is grateful.  He is struck by the wild thought that Will is murdered, and that Will’s blood does not actually smell any different from other people’s except in Hannibal’s imagination.  Will might be dead.  Will might be dead and Hannibal might not have known it was happening. 

          He opens the door.  A pair of legs peek over the side of the tub, limp with death, and both are clothed cheaply by a meagre salary from Mason Verger.

          Will is catching his breath in the corner of the room.  He is still more drugged than not, but the adrenaline gives his eyes a savage clarity.  He reacts to Hannibal now. 

          “I think it’s time to leave,” he says. 

          Hannibal surveys the damage once more.  “I couldn’t agree more.”

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has earned the right to kill Hannibal, especially after the good doctor goes grocery shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Readers, I am so, so sorry! I got caught up with a wedding, but now that I am happily married – and I don’t have to worry about planning a fantastic party – I can devote myself to typical wifely things. Like penning fanfic and reminding my spouse about when Hannibal is set to return. 
> 
> I have to thank everyone for their comments and reviews, for their kind support, for their reminders that this fic exists and people are reading it. Thank you! And now, please enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

 

Eight

 

          The pendulum is already in motion: the man disappears from the bathtub, his accomplice vanishes from the floor, and Will lies on the bed, barely conscious. 

          The room is completely still. 

          A blade rattles in the lock.  Will draws himself off the bed on shaking limbs, fighting nausea and dizziness.  Help comes when two beefy hands wrap around his neck.  That’s when adrenaline surges, waking him up enough to fight himself free. 

          His memory – normally crystal clear – is hazy on the details.  Will does remember taking a couple of hits from one of the men and fighting his way out of the other’s grasp.  He remembers grabbing the scalpel but not the decision to grab the scalpel.  He didn’t consciously make that decision, and further reflection reveals, horrifyingly, that it wasn’t a decision after all.  Killing Mason’s men was a foregone conclusion the second they decided to break into the room.

          “You assumed I would do it?”

          The memory releases him.  He stares into the ceiling of an unknown vehicle and is momentarily panicked at the thought that killing Mason’s men was a dream.  He was actually nabbed in the ensuing melee and has become captive to another psycho killer.

          Will sits up, then hisses and lies back down.  His movement, no matter how small, has pulled the trigger on the pain in his back.  He breathes through the burning and takes his time to acclimate to consciousness.  His senses gradually gather enough data to reassure him that he is still prisoner of the same psychopath.  Hannibal Lecter is sitting next to him, driving to God-only-knows-where.  Their vehicle is just luxurious enough that the doctor isn’t entirely annoyed by its existence.  The sun is shining (must be noonish), his head is pounding (from the drugs), and he’s been redressed in comfortable clothes for travel.

          His brain catches up with the conversation.  “I assumed you would do what?”   
  
          “You were speaking about killing Mason’s men and how it was a foregone conclusion,” Hannibal replies.  “Is that because you wanted to kill them or because you assumed that I would do it.”   
  
          “You would have killed them.”   
  
          “Of course I would.  Which brings me back to my question: did you want to kill them, or did you want me to kill them?”   
  
          “I didn’t want them to kill me.”   
  
          “Is that all?”

          “You want me to say that I didn’t want them to kill you.”

          “I want you to tell me the truth.”   
  
          And, as usual, Hannibal has beaten him to it, but Will still has to go through the motions of not-humouring him.  The wound in his back demands it.  The drugs demand it.  The disorientation of falling asleep in Italy and then waking up on a long stretch of foreign highway, unable to translate the road signs when the chemical fog clears from his eyes: all that demands that he make Hannibal wait for satisfaction.  The good doctor has to earn the truth. 

          “Why did you kill them?” the doctor wonders aloud.  Again.  When Will has been too quiet for too long. 

          Will plays coy.  “You mean besides the fact that they were trying to kill me?”

          “Yes, besides that.” 

          “I need a better reason than that?”   
  
          “You killed Randall Tier because you knew that death was the only way to stop him, and – no doubt – out of retribution for your dog.  These are thugs, Will.  You could have incapacitated them.  Better still, you could have sold me to them.”   
  
          “I am not going to sell you to Mason Verger,” Will is offended by the notion.  Of course he wouldn’t sell Hannibal to Mason Verger.  “I’m not going to let his men kill you either.”

          “Why not?  They would certainly make a good show of it.  I’m sure Mason has something gratuitous planned.”

          “I’m not selling you to Mason Verger.”

          “As a matter of honour?”   
  
          “As a matter of personal retribution: Mason and his men haven’t earned the right to kill you.”

          “And so, by definition, you have?”   
  
          “Yes.  I think you owe me that much.”   
  
          “The opportunity to end my life.”   
  
          “Yes,” the answer sounded better in his head.  Will feels like justifying himself, even if the rest of the answer runs the risk of sounded just as childish. “I did give you the opportunity to end mine.”   
  
          “You had to have known what I was going to do that night.”   
  
          “I knew what you were going to do to me.  I didn’t think you could do that _to her_.”

          “And that’s why you have the right to kill me?  Abigail’s murder?”

          “That’s part of it.”

          “What’s the other part?”

          “I haven’t figured it out yet.  It’s not for me, I know that much.”   
  
          The next few miles pass in silence.  Will’s back settles into a throb, and he risks adjusting his seat into a more vertical position.  His head spins as he does though, and he has to settle for a better view of the dashboard.  “Where are we?”

          He doesn’t actually think Hannibal will answer, and the good doctor does not disappoint.  “Out of Italy.  Uncle Jack far behind us.”   
  
          It takes Will a moment to parse through the layers of Lecter-speak to figure out what he’s really being told.  “You don’t have a plan, do you?”   
          “What makes you say that.”   
  
          The lack of inflection in Hannibal’s voice suggests that the doctor is not asking a question.  He’s playing with Will just as much as Will is playing with him.  In the conversation, anyways.  As a driver, Hannibal is playing with Will in all kinds of insidious ways. 

          “You’re still just waiting to see how I go.”

          “You have one of the most compelling minds I’ve ever known, Will.”   
  
          “So why all the secrecy?  I’m disoriented.  I’m at a loss for the language.  You have all the advantages here, Hannibal.”   
  
          Hannibal’s smile fills the whole car yet barely registers on his face.  “Disadvantage has only ever made you more compelling.”

         

* * *

 

          Will can’t guarantee that: he nods off shortly after the conversation ends, and he does not wake up until the sun is low enough in the sky that evening is a more accurate term for the time of day. 

          He’s alone in the car, parked at what looks to be a grocery store.  Hannibal’s acquiring provisions then, which is a good thing.  Hunger and dehydration have tied his abdominals into a fierce knot.  He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday.  On the bright side, Hannibal seems to be purchasing food instead of hunting fresh game.  The good doctor emerges with a bag of fresh ingredients in his arms. 

          He takes stock of his injuries.  The bruising on his chest and arms from the fight in the warehouse has bloomed.  His back is still bad.  Not infected, at least not in the way that Hannibal’s surgery intended to stop, but still.  Will feels Lecter inside him like a poison.  The good doctor has buried roots under his skin and grown into a great garden of wickedness. 

          The trunk opens.  Hannibal speaks, followed by another man, both in a language Will can’t place.  He listens less to the words and more to the tone, but Hannibal’s speaking with his usual, neutral tone and the man is brisk, a bit gruff.

          _Rude_.

          Will groans.  He buries his face in his hands.  Hears the soft thud of fist on flesh and feels the car dip from the weight.  Tries to ignore the sound of restraints being drawn tight.  The trunk door closes, and Hannibal heads to the driver’s seat. 

          “I’m not eating that!” Will declares.

          Hannibal checks the mirrors.  No one has noticed the extra ingredient he’s procured.  “ _He,_ Will,” the good doctor corrects him.  “That’s a he.”

          “I’m not eating him.”     

          “No, I daresay you won’t,” Hannibal produces a bottle of orange juice and places it in the drink holder, along with something fresh from the bakery.  Will can feel the heat of it against his leg.  He accepts it, and the thought that he won’t have to eat the man in the trunk. 

          Hannibal puts the car in drive and starts down the road again.  He waits until Will has taken a bite before speaking again:   
  
          “I wouldn’t want to eat him raw either.”

          Will damn near chokes, “God damn it, Hannibal.”

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, after all this time, Will’s hurt too by the thought that they are on opposite sides of the kitchen door: that they are on opposite sides of the linoleum knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Only one week between updates! The conclusion is nigh, dear readers, which is good because the new season is nigh! Less than a month for sweet satisfaction!
> 
> Readers, I can’t thank you enough for joining me on this. You have been so wonderful. I really hope you like this one. Cheers!

* * *

 

Nine

 

          Waking.  Waking in a pleasant room.  Waking calm.

          The voice sounds too real to be coming from inside Will’s head, but Hannibal’s presence fails to register.  Having developed sixth _and seventh_ senses for that kind of thing, Will assumes that must mean he’s alone and simply imagining Hannibal’s voice.  Projecting Miriam Lass’s captivity onto his own complicated situation as he too wakes in a pleasant room, wakes calm, wakes rested.

          He doesn’t remember the drive to this place, wherever it is.  Can’t remember falling asleep or waking up to leave the vehicle.  Can’t remember coming inside, removing his shoes and coat, and lying down in this foreign bed.  Will fumbles in the dark for a light and nearly knocks the lamp from its table in the process.  He blinks from the suddenness of the light.  The makings of a migraine collect at the front of his skull.  Just where the hell has Hannibal taken them?

          The room is not in a hotel: there are pictures, personal décor that give it away as a bedroom in a home.  Will is awash with fear for the homeowner’s safety, and that’s when he remembers the man in the trunk of the car.

          His legs shake as he rises, and while the stitches on his back pull, the wound doesn’t burn with the same ferocity as it did before.  Will takes a moment to run a hand over the dressings.  They’re clean.  He doesn’t remember having them changed, but they’re fresh as the crime scenes Jack used to bring him.  Fresher, even, since this is Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter he’s talking about.

          The bedroom door opens to a darkened hallway, lit at the far end by light coming from downstairs.  Will’s mouth waters from the smells wafting up the stairs.  He hates himself for the response.  He’s salivating for people.  Hannibal is cooking people.

          He wants his gun, a knife, a sharp implement, something heavy – anything that could pass for a weapon.  Anything that would give him the slightest advantage in the fight he knows he has to pick the second he gets downstairs.  Will can’t remember, but all that does is confirm some things for absolute certain: 1) Hannibal drugged him again, and did so because 2) Hannibal wanted to kill and cook a human being.  Finally, 3) Hannibal did all this most likely so he could share a cannibalistic feast with Will.

          The phone in the bedroom has been disconnected, and Hannibal has taken the liberty of removing any and every object that could be improvised into a weapon – concealed or otherwise.  Yet another reason Will’s memory has been impaired, no doubt.  The good doctor has also seen fit to bed Will in a room with only one available exit.  All the windows are sheer drops onto concrete.  Beyond that, there is only trees and darkness, potentially not another soul for miles. 

          Will takes several deep breaths.  The memories are there, they have to be.  Hannibal wouldn’t have…he doesn’t even bother to finish that statement.  Hannibal could and most assuredly would dose him.  He needed Will complacent and incapacitated in order to acclimate to his new surroundings.  He wants Will at a disadvantage.

          “Wind him up, watch him go,” Will mutters.  He abandons the futile search for a weapon, phone, and way out for the heady scent of dinner downstairs.  “Watch how I go…” 

* * *

         

          “Will, don’t regress.”

          Hannibal’s right: regression isn’t helping.  The pendulum swings, but there’s nowhere for Will to go except back upstairs, which leads right back to the here and now. 

          “I’m not regressing,” except that he is regressing.  Will’s regressing all the way back to Florence, to the moment he should have not gone with Hannibal.  To the moment he should have risked bleeding to death in the street rather than joining the good doctor on the road trip from hell.  He has to walk out of the kitchen and back into the dining room before his regression starts to show, only to realize a second too late that leaving the room is a regression in and of itself.

          He never could lie to Hannibal.

          Hannibal joins him in the dining room a moment later. 

          Will looks at the well-dressed table.  “I don’t want to hear whatever you’re about to say,” he tells the place setting meant for him. 

          “I wasn’t about to say anything,” Hannibal replies.

          “Dinner’s almost ready.”

          “Almost.”

          “But you haven’t started the main course yet?”   
  
          “I was waiting for you.  I was hoping we could prepare it together.”

          Will’s mouth opens into a fine line.  He inhales through his teeth, confounded as to why this is a decision.  Why _this_ is the one thing he takes the time to think about.  Maybe it’s that the rest of this experience has been a blur, one big catastrophe, and it’s only now that the dust starts to settle that he’s finally able to take stock of what’s been lost.

          “I thought we were being honest with each other.”

          “We are.”   
  
          “Then why did you drug me?”   
  
          Hannibal considers his own place at the table.  “I wanted to decontextualize this moment for you.”   
  
          “You wanted to disorient me.”

          “I wanted to disconnect you.  Had I left you conscious, you would be preoccupied with your allegiances to Jack Crawford and the FBI, to our last encounter, to Abigail.  I’m asking you to be your own man, Will.”

          “You’re asking me to be your man,” Will finally risks looking at Hannibal.  His train of thought completely derails.  “What are you wearing?”

          Hannibal inspects himself, “A plastic suit.” 

          “You have a plastic suit?” Will is about to call it tasteless, but then he realizes the purpose of Hannibal’s attire and is too shocked by the implications to say more.  “You have a plastic _murder_ suit?”

          “There’s a lot of blood in human bodies, Will.”

          “Yes, but you…” he can’t say more.  What else is there to say?  Of course, Hannibal’s right.  Will holds up his hands in defeat.  “This is fitting.  You’re prepared for this.”

          “So are you.”

          Will hisses: his laugh deflates.  “What is happening?” he demands.  “You’re making dinner.  We’re traveling across Europe together.  Jack Crawford is trailing us from Florence.  I’ve killed people, you’ve killed people.  Where is this heading, Hannibal?”   
  
          “I make a habit of never knowing where anything’s headed.”

          “Liar.  You make a habit of knowing how everyone will react.”   
  
          “That’s different.”   
  
          “So how am I going to react?  Did you really think that if you staged this, I would join you in there?”   
  
          Something crosses Hannibal’s face, something Will hasn’t seen since that last night in Baltimore.  Something that disappears but lingers in Will’s mirror receptors.  Something akin to genuine hurt.  Yes, Hannibal thought he knew exactly where tonight was headed, and all of a sudden, he doesn’t anymore.  He’s stuck at the same crossroad as Will, the difference being that he knows where he wants to go and can’t just force Will to come along this time. 

          “I thought you were at least willing to try.”   
  
          That’s not quite the truth, but it’s not quite a lie either. 

          Out of respect to their past friendship, to whatever –ship they have sailing now, Will finds a gentler way of telling Hannibal what needs to be said at the moment.  “I can’t be my own man and go back into that kitchen with you.”

          Hurt, again, registers on Hannibal’s face, then vanishes, but Will holds onto it in his mind.  He feels it to.  Damn it, after all this time, he’s hurt too by the thought that they are on opposite sides of the kitchen door: that they are on opposite sides of the linoleum knife. 

          “Why did you come with me, Will?” Hannibal wonders aloud.  “You accuse me of knowing our journey, but you had to have known this was eventually going to be our destination.”

          “I didn’t think about this.”

          “Why?”   
  
          “Because I didn’t want to think about this.  I didn’t want to think that we haven’t changed.  That you are still the Ripper and I am still…not.”

          “You still have the chance.”   
  
          “I don’t want it!  I don’t want that!” he points to the kitchen.  “I understand you, Hannibal, but that doesn’t mean that I want to be you.”

          “You are so much more than what you are, Will.”   
  
          “Well, I don’t want to be that either, not if it means what you’re suggesting.  I do what I do to save lives.  You do what you do to end them in the most horrific ways possible.”   
  
          “You really think the world will miss one man?  Any man?”   
  
          “No, but I never much cared about what the world wants.  I know that he doesn’t want to die, that he is afraid of both of us, and that he does not deserve whatever terror you have planned for him.”   
  
          “Would you trade your life for his, Will?” Hannibal’s voice takes on that promising quality that once shook Will to the core.  Now, Will faces it with a kind of certainty, not that Hannibal’s bluffing but that the good doctor can’t deliver. 

          “You wouldn’t,” he replies.  “You wouldn’t trade me for just any life.  You couldn’t even trade me for Abigail’s.”

          Hannibal doesn’t try to argue that point.  He looks at the table he’s laid, quiet with thought. 

          Will is impatient.  “Where does this end, Hannibal?”

          The good doctor fixes the clear plastic cuffs of his sleeves.  “The same way all good days end, Will,” he replies, “with a hearty meal.”  He turns and holds the swinging door to the kitchen open, giving Will full view of the abducted man, bloodied and bound to the table.  The man’s eyes are wide with fear. 

          “I won’t let you kill him,” Will promises. 

          Hannibal gives the smallest of shrugs, “Then I’m afraid you’ll be joining me in the kitchen after all.”

          On the same side of the knife, for once. 

 

* * *

 

Happy reading! 


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knife returns to his neck.   
> “I intend to honour every part of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I struggled with this last chapter. I didn’t want this fic to end! I just wanted to go on believing that Will and Hannibal were traveling around Europe like an old married couple. The new season looms though, so this had to get concluded. Stay tuned for the epilogue!
> 
> I do owe a great debt to the readers of this fic: this he-ate-us was a lot harder than the one between season 1 and 2. I could not have done this without your kind support. Thank you so much for joining me! I hope you enjoy this penultimate installment. Cheers!

* * *

 

Ten

 

          Will doesn’t give Hannibal the chance to turn around.  He storms into the kitchen and pounces on the doctor from behind, landing blow after blow after blow.

          One for Jack.

          One for Alana. 

          One for Abigail. 

          More for Abigail.

          He wraps himself in a knot around Hannibal’s limbs and successfully knocks the knife from the fight.  “You were supposed to leave that night,” Will hisses.  He pulls his arm more tightly against Hannibal’s neck.  “You were supposed to be gone before Jack got there.”   
  
          Hannibal fights weakly, more to escape than to harm.  He doesn’t want to hurt Will from this position.  His grunting grows feeble, as do his movements.  Will pulls his arm tighter.  “I hate you…” he breaks under pressure.  Tears run from his eyes.  “I hate you so much.  And I think…I think the only thing I hate more than you…is the fact that I find myself not hating you at all.”   
  
          He lets go.  Takes a step back.  Readies his fists again.  Hannibal’s on all fours, coughing and spluttering.  It takes him several long minutes before he remembers how to breathe.  Will gives him the opportunity as he retrieves the knife Hannibal dropped earlier.

          The blade catches the doctor’s reflection.  His expression is a bizarre cocktail of curiosity and tragedy.  “I thought…you were going to kill me…with your hands…” he wheezes.

          Will wipes at his tears furiously.  He trembles on the edge of his unravelled morality, gazing down the face of a sheer precipice between him and satisfaction.  As usual, he keeps his feet firmly on solid ground, “I’m not going to kill you, Dr. Lector.”

          Hannibal hangs his head, “You’re going to give me to Jack?”

          “No,” Will shakes his head.  He heaves a shuddering breath.  “I’m going to let you go.  Just go.  You leave, and I won’t follow.”

          “That’s not life.”   
  
          “It’s survival.”   
  
          “We needn’t be parallel lines.”

          “Yes, we do.”  
  
          “You’re that terrified of becoming me?”   
  
          “I’m that…awestruck by you.  By the sheer monstrosity of you.  By the sheer…” Will chuckles, “by the sheer monstrosity of me.”

          “We would have made quite a pair,” Hannibal rubs his hand along his lip, collecting a line of blood across his knuckles.  “We still can.”   
  
          “No.  We both know where this ends,” Will replies.

          “Yes,” Hannibal agrees.  “We do.”

          Will doesn’t see the attack coming, not until the air’s knocked out of his lungs and the knife falls from his hand across the floor.  The floor catches his head, shooting stars through his vision.  He is pulled across the floor by an ankle.  When he kicks, Will gets grabbed by the hair and yanked to his knees. 

          Hannibal lifts Will to his feet and embraces him from behind.  Will’s struggle is halted when the cold steel of a knife blade presses against his jugular.  

          “I don’t want this to be over,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly.

          “You kill me, it ends pretty quickly,” Will reminds him. 

          He’s calm.  He doesn’t know why he’s so calm.  Maybe it’s because he has already died once before this way: on Hannibal’s kitchen floor, watching Abigail bleed out from her neck.   

          “I’ve already seen you suffer,” Hannibal presses the knife point deeper.  Will can feel his skin split.  He grabs Hannibal’s wrist and nearly risks the knife going deeper. 

          Blood starts dribbling down his neck.  Will lets out a shout.   

          The knife retracts, rises.  Hannibal’s knife hand runs down Will’s face while the other clamps over the tiny wound he’s just created.   He’s made their position all too literal: stay and die; leave and die.  Hannibal is God and the devil all rolled into one. 

          “Tonight was supposed to be about our unification,” Hannibal laments.  
  
          “You can still run,” Will tells him. 

          “But where would I go if not with you?” Hannibal wonders aloud.  “I made a life in Florence, Will, and it was beautiful but empty, like that mask you wore when you killed Randall Tier.  I thought it was Bedelia’s observations that drained my enjoyment from the experience.  It wasn’t until your arrival that I realized this is the life I had intended for us: you, me, Abigail.”

          Hannibal tightens his grasp on Will’s neck, avoiding his legs as they flail.  “I won’t have a world without you, not anymore,” he directs Will’s attention to the man on the table.  “I believe we will be having dinner together tonight after all.  Though I should apologize in advance for the change of the main course.”

          Here, Will feels the panic he should have when Hannibal first put the knife to his neck.  He starts to fight back in whatever way he can.  Hannibal holds fast to him though, hushing him gently, as if he’s a child having a tantrum.  “Relax, Will.  I don’t want you to feel any pain.  Not this time.”

          The knife returns to his neck. 

          “I intend to honour every part of you.”   
  
          “Hannibal…”   
  
          He grabs Hannibal’s wrist with one hand and elbows him in the chest with the other.  The action does very little to increase the distance between himself and the blade.  Hannibal still has him impossibly in his grasp, wrapped up in a hold that doesn’t seem to have an escape.  The blade finds his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder, nicking and biting, reminding him that he is alive, in this moment.  He is Alive and Hannibal is killing him. 

          The thought brings a renewed sense of life to his limbs.  Will forces his arm between the knife and his neck and wraps his hand around Hannibal’s cheek.  He ignores the blood that spurts from his cut wrist, ignores the pain, and pushes.  Pushes hard.  Pushes until Hannibal has no choice but to yield to the pressure.  Then Will slams his fist into Hannibal’s face. 

          And he doesn’t stop. 

 

* * *

 

          Light returns first, then music.  Vide Cor Meum.  Perfect music for a perfect morning.

          The swell of the soprano’s voice becomes the ringing in his ears and is almost lost behind the waves of blood crushing against the front of his skull.  Hannibal’s mind is a lazy ocean after an oil spill, waters thick and polluted.  He raises his head for clarity and ends up blinded by the powdery blue of the morning sky.

          Pain asserts itself dully.  It has difficulty navigating through his concussion.  All the bruising in his brain is tripping up sensations.  For instance, it takes Hannibal an eternity to register that his hands are secured behind his back, that his arms are wrapped around the trunk of a tree, that his head is in agony, sheer agony.

          He lets his swollen head drop.  It bobs on his neck for a while, riding waves of pressure.  The bruising on his face must be considerable for his skin to feel this inflamed. 

          Hannibal gives himself time to awaken; he’s not going anywhere fast as it is.  The ropes are well tied.  Will’s used plenty of complicated knots – some that he recognizes, others that he does not – and none of them yield to his clumsy hand movements. 

          Hannibal raises his aching skull to find the young man standing before him, armed with the kitchen knife that nearly took his life the night before.

          “You asked me once how I would kill you,” Will notes.

          Hannibal nods and nearly succumbs to unconsciousness again.  He lets the pain draw him back into wakefulness, “You promised me intimacy.”   
  
          “Intimacy was what I wanted at the time,” Will doesn’t dare meet Hannibal’s eyes.  He looks through the trees, searching for something Hannibal knows he won’t find.  “I once fantasized having you crushed to death like this.  Let you explode into a great firework of blood.”

          “I wasn’t going to eat you because you’re rude,” Hannibal offers in defence of his previous actions. 

          “I know.  Perhaps it’s my rudeness that keeps me from being flattered by the gesture.”

          Hannibal shifts as much as he can in his bonds.  There’s no give.  Will’s left nothing to chance.  He’s given Hannibal the same chance as he was given in Baltimore: run as a coward and live, stay as a friend and die.  “I think it rude that you would hang me from a tree to kill me.”   
  
          Will laughs darkly, sadly, “I’m not going to kill you, Dr. Lecter.  I’m going to leave you here for the animals or Jack Crawford: whoever comes first.”

          “Jack Crawford will come for you as much as he will come for me.”   
  
          “Yes, but Jack Crawford will let me go if I tell him to,” Will speaks with such certainty. 

          “How do you know that?” Hannibal asks.

          “Because you don’t want me to believe that.  You want me to run with you?  I’m tired…I’m so tired of running with you.  I have carried you in my head since the day we met.”

          “You will never be rid of me, Will.  I am in those scars on your abdomen.  The new scars on your face and wrist.”

          “I am _not_ my scars,” Will snaps.  He begins to walk away.

          “You’re right,” Hannibal agrees.  “I am.”

          The barb should have stopped him, but aside for a stutter in Will’s gait, it has no effect.  Will Graham forces one foot in front of the other and disappears into the trees. 

          Hannibal Lecter sets to work on his bonds.  He manages only to loosen them slightly around his chest before his hands go numb. 

          He’s almost grateful when, hours later, Jack Crawford cuts him down from the tree personally. 

          Almost.

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


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